[Drama] Bloody Hell

[Miriam Bell]

A sudden searing flash of pain wakes Miriam from her sleep when she shifts and her arm flops into the band of sunlight falling across the bed. With a sharp hiss she jerks away and cowers against the headboard, clutching her reddened wrist and arm and as the surge of adrenaline wears off confusion and disorientation creep over her. An unfamiliar room, an unfamiliar bed, white sheets speckled with red, slowly browning spots and some larger splotches that are still slightly damp, smelling of the delicious, heady aroma of blood. Among the sheets are at least two? No, three other bodies.

The previous night is a blur, as is the exact number of days since she was left standing in the middle of the dance floor and for a moment panic shoots through her that Will's accusations, concerns, were even more accurate than the shapeshifter had meant. But then one of the shapes in the bloodied bed moves and slowly the thoughts of the three women (and those of one in an adjacent room) creep into her muddled mind. Drug-laced blood, people welcoming the mental spreading of the sensations of highs and more... carnal activities. She must have enjoyed herself but that feeling does not extend to the now and she groans, running both hands through her hair and craning her neck back to stare at the ceiling. A ceiling that is dark wood with intricate inlays and wooden crown molding right above her, usurping a spot on the otherwise plain white ceiling and wall of the modern bed-room like an invasive lichen. And it isn't fading or responding to her foggy thoughts at all, almost taunting her with it's persistence. In a knee-jerk reaction she hurls a pillow at it, with the predictable result of it coming back down to land square in her face.

[Miriam Bell]

Such an innocuous (if not exactly inconspicuous) detail painted into the substance of the ceiling. Of reality really. But the more she stares at it the more her stomach sinks and finally propels her out of bed, gathering up her clothes while awkwardly hopping and shuffling around the strips of sunlight falling across the carpet. She'd managed to run from the thought through seer indulgence and distractions but now it has taken root in her head like the chunk of delicately carved wood has in the ceiling. Will's mood had changed so suddenly, the idea that she did that takes hold, as much as she's trying to tell herself how unreasonable it is. Her own self-doubts pushed aside and into Will instead, still focused on her.

She's 99% certain she didn't, but the possibility will not leave her alone. And even if she's wrong then the fact that it's a concern means Will was right to be concerned. No matter how she twists and turns it in her head, it will not resolve itself. And it won't, not on it's own. She's pulling on her dress while juggling her phone to call an Uber, finding an oversized jacket and a womens fedora to shelter her during the dash from front door to the car through the morning sun.